The Bourne Ultimatum by Robert Ludlum

Food, however, would have to wait; there were things to take care of, and first on the list was to reach Bernardine, and then to learn the security status of the Pont-Royal hotel. He got to his feet, stiffly, unsteadily, numbness momentarily invading his legs and arms. He needed a hot shower, which was not to be had at the Avenir, then mild exercise to limber up his body, therapies unnecessary only a few years ago. He removed his wallet from his trousers, pulled out Bernardine’s card and returned to the bed to use the telephone beside it; he dialed.

“Le canard had no visitors, I’m afraid,” said the Deuxième veteran. “Not even the hint of a hunter, which I presume is favorable news.”

“It’s not until we find Panov—if we find him. The bastards!”

“Yes, that must be faced. It’s the ugliest part of our work.”

“Goddamn it, I can’t dismiss a man like Mo with ‘That must be faced’!”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m only remarking upon the reality. Your feelings are meaningful to you, but they don’t change reality. I did not mean to offend you.”

“And I didn’t mean to mouth off. Sorry. It’s just that he’s a very special person.”

“I understand. … What are your plans? What do you need?”

“I don’t know yet,” answered Bourne. “I’ll pick up the car in the Capucines and an hour or so later I’ll know more. Will you be home or at the Deuxième Bureau?”

“Until I hear from you I will stay in my flat and near my very unique telephone. Under the circumstances I prefer that you do not call me at the office.”

“That’s an astonishing statement.”

“I don’t know everyone these days at the Deuxième, and at my age, caution is not merely the better part of valor, it’s frequently a substitute. Besides, to call off my protection so swiftly might generate rumors of senility. … Speak to you later, mon ami.”

Jason replaced the phone, tempted to pick it up again and reach the Pont-Royal, but this was Paris, the city of discretion, where hotel clerks were loath to give information over the telephone, and would refuse to do so with guests they did not know. He dressed quickly, went down to pay his bill, and walked out onto the rue Gay-Lussac. There was a taxi stand at the corner; eight minutes later he walked into the lobby of the Pont-Royal and up to the concierge. “Je m’appelle Monsieur Simon,” he said to the man, giving his room number. “I ran into a friend last night,” he continued in flawless French, “and I stayed at her place. Would you know if anyone came around looking for me, perhaps asking for me.” Bourne removed several large franc notes, his eyes telling the man he would pay generously for confidentiality. “Or even describing someone like me,” he added softly.

“Merci bien, monsieur. … I understand. I will check further with the night concierge, but I’m sure he would have left a note for my personal attention if someone had come here seeking you.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because he did leave such a note for me to speak with you. I’ve been calling your room since seven o’clock this morning when I came on duty.”

“What did the note say?” asked Jason, his breathing on hold.

“It’s what I’m to say to you. ‘Reach his friend across the Atlantic. The man has been phoning all night.’ I can attest to the accuracy of that, monsieur. The switchboard tells me that last call was less than thirty minutes ago.”

“Thirty minutes ago?” said Jason, looking hard at the concierge and then at his watch. “It’s five A.M. over there … all night?”

The hotel man nodded as Bourne started for the elevator.

“Alex, for Christ’s sake, what is it? They told me you’ve been calling all—”

“Are you at the hotel?” interrupted Conklin quickly.

“Yes, I am.”

“Get to a public phone in the street and call me back. Hurry.”

Again the slow, cumbersome elevator; the faded ornate lobby now half filled with Parisians talking manically, many heading for the bar and their prenoon apéritifs; and again the hot bright summer street outside and the maddening congested traffic. Where was a telephone? He walked rapidly down the pavement toward the Seine—where was a phone? There! Across the converging rue du Bac, a red-domed booth with posters covering the sides.

Dodging the onslaught of automobiles and small trucks, all with furious drivers, he raced to the other side of the street and down to the booth. He sped inside, deposited a coin, and after an agonizing few moments during which he explained that he was not calling Austria, the international operator accepted his AT&T credit number and put the call through to Vienna, Virginia.

“Why the hell couldn’t I talk from the hotel?” asked Bourne angrily. “I called you last night from there!”

“That was last night, not today.”

“Any news about Mo?”

“Nothing yet, but they may have made a mistake. We may have a line on the army doctor.”

“Break him!”

“With pleasure. I’ll take off my foot and smash his face with it until he begs to cooperate—if the line on him is rumb.”

“That’s not why you’ve been calling me all night, though, is it?”

“No. I was with Peter Holland for five hours yesterday. I went over to see him after we talked, and his reaction was exactly what I thought it would be, with a few generous broadsides in the bargain.”

“Medusa?”

“Yes. He insists you fly back immediately; you’re the only one with direct knowledge. It’s an order.”

“Bullshit! He can’t insist I do anything, much less give me an order!”

“He can cut you off, and I can’t do anything about it. If you need something in a hurry, he won’t deliver.”

“Bernardine’s offered to help. ‘Whatever you need,’ those were his words.”

“Bernardine’s limited. Like me, he can call in debts, but without access to the machine he’s too restricted.”

“Did you tell Holland I’m writing down everything I know, every statement that was made to me, every answer to every question I asked?”

“Are you?”

“I will.”

“He doesn’t buy it. He wants to question you; he says he can’t question pages of paper.”

“I’m too close to the Jackal! I won’t do it. He’s an unreasonable son of a bitch!”

“I think he wanted to be reasonable,” said Conklin. “He knows what you’re going through, what you’ve been through, but after seven o’clock last night he closed the doors.”

“Why?”

“Armbruster was shot to death outside his house. They’re calling it a Georgetown robbery, which, of course, it isn’t and wasn’t.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“There are a couple of other things you ought to know. To begin with, we’re releasing Swayne’s ‘suicide.’ ”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“To let whoever killed him think he’s off the hook, and, more important, to see who shows up during the next week or so.

“At the funeral?”

“No, that’s a ‘closed family affair,’ no guests, no formal ceremony.”

“Then who’s going to show up where?

“At the estate, in one form or another. We checked with Swayne’s attorney, very officially, of course, and he confirmed what Swayne’s wife told you about his leaving the whole place to a foundation.”

“Which one?” asked Bourne.

“One you’ve never heard of, funded privately a few years ago by wealthy close friends of the august ‘wealthy’ general. It’s as touching as can be. It goes under the title of the Soldiers, Sailors and Marines Retreat; the board of directors is already in place.”

“Medusans.”

“Or their surrogates. We’ll see.”

“Alex, what about the names I gave you, the six or seven names Flannagan gave me? And that slew of license plate numbers from their meetings?”

“Cute, real cute,” said Conklin enigmatically.

“What’s cute?”

“Take the names—they’re the dregs of the wing-ding social set, no relation to the Georgetown upper crust. They’re out of the National Enquirer, not The Washington Post.”

“But the licenses, the meetings! That’s got to be the ball of wax.”

“Even cuter,” observed Alex. “A ball of sheep dip. … Every one of those licenses is registered to a limousine company, read that companies. I don’t have to tell you how authentic the names would be even if we had the dates to trace them.”

“There’s a cemetery out there!”

“Where is it? How big, how small? There are twenty-eight acres—”

“Start looking!”

“And advertise what we know?”

“You’re right; you’re playing it right. … Alex, tell Holland you couldn’t reach me.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve got the concierge, I can cover. Give Holland the hotel and the name and tell him to call himself, or send over whoever he likes from the embassy to verify. The concierge will swear I checked in yesterday and he hasn’t seen me since. Even the switchboard will confirm it. Buy me a few days, please.”